The Art of Broken Pieces

6 Porgs, then 60

They adeptly avoided ever discussing what had happened—and not happened—between them that night. Ben was unwilling to face the demons behind his carefully constructed walls again, and Rey seemed determined to pretend she'd not gotten an up-close glimpse of them.

They fell into a routine. For a Core-Planet month, they ate and flew and maintained the Falcon, stopping here and there to fuel-up, resupply, and purge the porgish population. All the while, Ben monitored the First Order channels with something resembling obsession.

At times he could feel her watching him, could read the curiosity in the unprotected corners of her mind. She wondered what drove him so, what had taken him down this path. He remembered her own words, thrown at him in defiance so long ago, when she'd turned his mind reading back on him.

You're afraid you will never be as strong as Darth Vader.

She had not been wrong, but she couldn't know that it was now Anakin's words, Anakin's stolen legacy which drove him forward when the darkness sang for him as the light once had.

When he found patterns in the message origins, Ben set his traps with care. And though he knew it still bothered her that he drew their conflicts into populated areas, she'd stopped questioning the action. She seemed to understand his need to push his limits again and again, testing his control.

Always, in the aftermath, she stopped to make sure the citizens were cared for, to reassure them and promise aid. And always Ben retreated into the isolation he needed to re-gather his thoughts. He couldn't bring himself to care as she did, but through her eyes and the brush of her mind he found the actions less of a mystery than he once had.

Yet another pattern emerged over the course of the missions. Leaving his lightsaber on the field of battle had become his newest test, forcing fingers tight with anger and a hand that struggled to betray him to release both the Force and his weapon and walk away. Each time it was returned to him without words—a token of the trust building in their unstable partnership.

The dusky vest he'd bought her still lay hidden in his quarters, wrapped in the shop's wrinkled paper, a constant reminder of the things between them that had not changed.

Since they'd crossed the last relay, Finn had sent Rey fourteen messages. Each was little more than a sentence long, often second-guessing or adding onto his previous question or concern. And most of those questions and concerns revolved in a tight orbit around a single subject: Ben.

More thoughtful updates came from Rose and Chewie and Poe, detailing the work they were all doing to rebuild this new government, asking hopefully when she was going to come home. Home. It was a word that hadn't meant anything before she'd met them. There was a tension to the question that grew clearer the longer she stayed away, and no clearer than Poe's single message.

>> Aid on its way. One of these days you'll give me a report in person. It'd be good to see your face, Kid. We all miss you. (Finn claims most, but I get second. Okay, I get third, according to BB-8. They just don't understand what we have.) Take care of yourself, and good work. Force with you, Poe

She could see him in her mind, tucked in a side-passage to snare a few quiet moments to read and respond to her report. She tried to imagine the uniforms Rose had described, with their deep green or navy jackets, but all she could see was the tiredness on his face, the almost listless words: We all miss you.

Rey read the several times, understanding what he'd written between the lines. They were worried. They didn't like her being out here, with Ben. But they were so close to another mark, and this one, according to Ben's most recent communication, dealt in Being trafficking. If they could bust up this First Order ring, they could free hundreds.